r6fi^ Poems 

LONGFELLOW 



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HENRY W. LONGFELLOW 
From a phofograph 



LOJSIGFELLOW 



Favorite Poems 




The Old 
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Boston 



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LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
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COPYRIGHT, 1907 
BY SHERWIN CODY 



CONTENTS 

Longfellow, Life . •! . . . . r. . . . . . . . . -. ^ 7 

Favorite Poems. 

Hymn to the Night 21 

A Psalm of Life 22 

The Reaper and the Flowers 23 

The Skeleton in Armor. 25 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 31 

The Village Blacksmith 34 

Endymion 36 

The Rainy Day 38 

God's Acre 38 

To the River Charles 39 

Maidenhood 41 

Excelsior 43 

The Slave's Dream 45 

Carillon 47 



Page 

The Belfry of Bruges 49 

The Arsenal at Springfield 53 

Nuremberg 54 

The Norman Baron 58 

Rain in Summer 60 

The Bridge 63 

The Day is Done 66 

The Old Clock on the Stairs 68 

The Arrow and the Song 70 

Curfew .-?T 71 

The Building of the Ship 72 

The Warden of the Cinque Ports 85 

My Lost Youth 87 

The Builders 90 

The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz 92 

Children 93 

The Children's Hour 94 

The Cumberland 96 

Beware ! 98 

Paul Revere's Ride 99 

The Birds of Killingworth 103 



LONGFELLOW 

In Longfellow America can boast of the most 
popular poet of modern times. The simple music 
of his verse has sounded far and wide. There is 
almost no one so poor and unlettered that he does 
not know by heart the *Tsalm of Life," *The Vil- 
lage Blacksmith," "The Old Clock on the Stairs," 
"The Wreck of the Hesperus," and "The Building 
of the Ship." The oftener we read a good poem, 
the better we like it. We do not enjoy prose as 
much the second time we read it as we do the first, 
and when we have read it two or three times its 
interest is usually gone forever. But with an old 
song or a familiar poem exactly the opposite is 
true. Every man should have his favorite poet 
in a convenient little volume that he can carry in his 
pocket, and that he will not be afraid to mark. 

Among the favorite poets today, Longfellow is 
the simplest and sweetest. Others may be greater 
than he, we may admire them more, and have more 
learned societies for the study of them; but during 
our moments of leisure, when we are weary or 
depressed or ill, we will not turn to Shakspere, or 
Dante, or Milton, or Homer, or Virgil; we will 
read — 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

7 



8 LONGFELLOW 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time; 

But from some humbler poet, 
Whose songs gushed from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds in summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start. 

Born in Portland. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Por*-- 
land, Maine, February 27, 1807, and died in Cam- 
bridge, Massachusetts, in the old Craigie House, 
March 24, 1882. He was descended from John 
Alden and Priscilla Mullens, who came over in the 
Mayflower, and who have been made famous in his 
own poem, *'The Courtship of Miles Standish." His 
great-great-grandfather on his father's side was a 
blacksmith. His grandfather on his mother's side 
was Gen. Peleg Wadsworth, the hero of a daring 
escape from a British prison; and one of his 
mother's brothers (Henry Wadsworth, for whom 
he was named) was an officer in the United States 
navy. Two years before the poet was born, this 
brave young lieutenant lost his life before Tripoli, 
where his ship was blown up. 

Stephen Longfellow, the father, was a lawyef 
and a man prominent in public affairs in Portland. 
When Lafayette visited this country in 1825, Ste- 
phen Longfellow was selected to present an address 
in behalf of his townsmen. At the time Henry 
was born, the Longfellows were living in the house 
of Mrs. Stephenson, Mrs. Longfellow's sister; but 



LIFE 9 

a few months later they moved into General Wads- 
worth's house, the first brick house built in Port- 
land; and this was the home of the poet during his 
entire boyhood and youth. 

Portland was an important seaport at the be- 
ginning of the nineteenth century; but except in 
this respect it has not been changed much in a 
hundred years. Its streets are shaded by beautiful 
trees, its lawns are roomy and well kept, and the 
surrounding hills are still covered with woods. In 
his poem *'My Lost Youth'' we have Longfellow's 
picture of the home of his boyhood and of boy- 
hood's dreams. 

Often I think of the beautiful town 

That is seated by the sea; 
Often in thought go up and down 
The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 
And my youth comes back to me. 
And a verse of a Lapland song 
Is haunting my memory still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 

And catch, in sudden gleams. 
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, 
And islands that were the Hesperides 

Of all my boyish dreams. 

I remember the black wharves and the slips 
And the sea-tides tossing free; 



10 LONGFELLOW 

And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
And the beauty and the mystery of the ships. 
And the magic of the sea. 

He was fivef years old when the War of 1812 
broke out. The Gueriere met the British brig Boxer 
off Portland harbor and captured her; both com- 
manders were killed, and of the struggle sings the 
poet: 

I remember the sea-fight, far away, 

How it thundered o'er the tide ! 
And the dead captains as they lay 
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, 

Where they in battle died. 

But his favorite pastime was wandering in the 
woods : 

And Deering's woods are fresh and fair, 

And with joy that is almost pain 
My heart goes back to wander there, 
And among the dreams of the days that were 

I find my lost youth again. 

His First Poem. 

Though no sign of poetic talent had appeared in 
the Longfellow family up to this time, young Henry 
showed a fondness for rhyming almost as soon as 
he could read and write. There is probably no 
truth in the story of the poem about **Mr. Finney's 
Turnip." Longfellow's first published poem was 



LIFE II 

"The Battle of LovelPs Pond," which appeared in 
the Portland Gazette. There were two weekly 
papers in Portland, and, as the custom was in those 
days, there was in each a corner devoted to poetry. 
When he was twelve or so, Henry was encouraged 
by a friend, or possibly by his sister, to drop one 
of his poems into the editorial box of their favorite 
paper in the hope that it would be accepted and 
printed. The youthful poet and his confidant 
scanned the next issue of the paper closely, but 
without finding the poem. After waiting patiently 
for several weeks, the young man summoned up 
courage to go and ask for his manuscript. He 
received it, and took it across the street to the rival 
paper, the Gazette, The editor of the Gazette ac- 
cepted the poem and published it at once; and 
thereafter the columns of that paper were always 
open to the poet. This first poem is not remarka- 
ble, but it is certainly an interesting production for 
a boy. 

THE BATTLE OF LOVELL's POND. 

Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast 

That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast. 

As it moans through the tall waving pines lone 

and drear. 
Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier. 

The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell 

Has sunk into silence along the wild dell; 

The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er. 

And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more. 



12 LONGFELLOW 

The warriors that fought for their country— and 

bled, 
Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their 

bed; 
No stone tells the place where their ashes repose, 
Nor points out the spot from the graves of their 

foes. 

They died in their glory, surrounded by fame, 
And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim; 
They are dead, but they live in each Patriot's breast. 
And their names are engraven on honor's bright 
crest. — Henry. 

Enters College at Fourteen. 

Longfellow entered Bowdoin College at the age 
of fourteen, in the same class with Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne. Little did their associates suspect that the 
shy, awkward country boy was destined to become 
America's greatest novelist; and one of Longfel- 
low's classmates frankly told him that he didn't 
think much of his rhymes. For all that the hope- 
ful poet cherished his ambition, and during his 
college course contributed steadily to the leading 
literary periodicals of the day. It is true he re- 
ceived no compensation for his work; nor was his 
name attached to his productions; but he had the 
satisfaction of seeing his verse widely copied in 
the newspapers and admired by literary critics. 

After graduating with the highest honors, Long- 
fellow studied law for a few months; but before 



LIFE 13 

he was twenty he was privately offered the newly 
established chair of modern languages at Bowdoin 
College. One of the trustees had heard him trans- 
late a passage from Horace with such ringing force 
that he set it down in his mind at once that here 
was a young man of unusual talent. In nominating 
him for the new professorship he offered this as 
his chief recommendation, and the learned board 
apparently accepted it as sufficient. Longfellow 
studied abroad three years, and on his return was 
formally installed as professor. Though so young, 
he quickly became one of the most popular teachers 
in the college. Within two years he married Miss 
Mary Storer Potter. The gossips hinted that he 
was rather too particular about his neckties and 
the cut of his trousers; but he was modest and 
quiet as well as good-looking and well dressed, and 
his wife was as accomplished and charming as he 
was. He wrote various scholarly articles for the 
magazines and published a school textbook or two. 
So five years slipped away, and he was offered the 
professorship of belles-lettres and modern lan- 
guages at Harvard. 

Once more he had the privilege of studying 
abroad. His wife accompanied him; but within a 
year she died. She was an unusually gifted and 
accomplished woman, and as sweet in character as 
she was learned. It was said that she was espe- 
cially skilled in mathematics and astronomy. Her 
death was the first great sorrow of the poet's life; 



14 LONGFELLOW 

but it was also the inspiration of his first really 
great poetic work. 

A Harvard Professor, 

Soon after he began his duties at Harvard, Long- 
fellow became an inmate of the Craigie House, 
which had been Washington's headquarters during 
the siege of Boston, and was destined to be made 
still more famous as the home of the poet from this 
time until his death. It was a fine old mansion; 
but the old lady who kept up its decaying splendors 
was obliged to take roomers. Among her guests 
had been Jared Sparks and Edward Everett. Hav- 
ing made up his mind to apply for lodgings here, 
the slender and youthful-looking professor walked 
up the shaded path, clanged the great brass knocker, 
on which the hand of Washington had often rested, 
and was admitted to the presence of the lady of the 
house. He inquired if she had any rooms to rent.* 

"I no longer take student roomers," she replied 
coldly. 

"But I am a professor — Professor Longfellow," 
said he, introducing himself. 

"Ah, that is another matter," said she. "I will 
show you what I have." 

With much dignity she ushered him up the stairs 
and through the long corridor above. One after 
another she opened the doors of the various rooms, 



*This story is told by Col. T. W. Higginson, in "Homes 
of American Authors.** 



LIFE 15 

and dilated at length upon the beauties and his- 
toric associations of each, invariably ending with 
the phrase, "But you cannot have that." 

At length she opened the door of a delightful 
chamber on the upper floor, in the south-west cor- 
ner of the building. "This," she said, "was Wash- 
ington's bedchamber." The professor looked about 
admiringly and longingly, expecting his hostess to 
inform him presently that he "could not have that." 
He was mistaken, however, for she told him he 
might have this room. Here he accordingly in- 
stalled himself, and here were passed the most 
characteristic years of his life. 

Here, sitting between two windows and looking 
out after a beautiful sunset, he wrote the "Psalm 
of Life." Here, too, were written "Flowers" and 
"Footsteps of Angels," in which occur those beauti- 
ful verses referring to his wife — the "Being Beau- 
teous." Below him, with nothing to obstruct the 
view, he could see the River Charles. 

River! that in silence windest 
Through the meadows bright and free, 

Till at length thy rest thou findest 
In the bosom of the sea! 

Four long years of mingled feeling, 
Half in rest, and half in strife, 

I have seen thy waters stealing 
Onward, like the stream of life. 



16 LONGFELLOW 

Here, too, often met the famous "Five of Clubs," 
a friendly knot of five congenial spirits, one of the 
number being Charles Sumner, then a young lawyer 
in Boston. 

The Psalm of Life. 

As in his college days, the poems that were pro- 
duced at this time were sent to various literary 
periodicals of the day, and were published without 
payment and without signature. The *Tsalm of 
Life" was signed simply "L." It was immediately 
copied in the papers far and wide, and became a 
household word. While visiting London at a later 
time, when his name had become known, the poet 
was surprised and pleased to be accosted by a la- 
boring man, who came up to his carriage and asked 
if he was Professor Longfellow. When in- 
formed that that was the gentleman's name, he said 
that he wished to thank the poet personally for the 
"Psalm of Life," as that poem had done him more 
good than any other he had ever read. One of 
Charles Sumner's classmates told him that he had 
been saved from suicide by reading the "Psalm of 
Life." While in a despondent mood he had come 
across the poem on a piece of newspaper in the 
hands of two working women. He read it and took 
heart again, and since then he had never allowed 
himself to fall into such depression. 

One day Longfellow's cousin, John Owen, who 
kept a bookstore in Cambridge, suggested to him 
the publication of a little volume of verse with his 



LIFE 17 

name. Longfellow thought it would be difficult to 
find a pubHsher for a volume of poetry, but his 
cousin said he should like to undertake the book. 
For a time the professor refused to have his name 
attached to it; but finally he yielded, and in 1839, 
when the poet was thirty-two years old, a thin little 
volume entitled "Voices of the Night'' appeared, 
and made his reputation almost immediately. From 
that time onward he produced voluminously. 

He Tells His Love Story in Hyperion. 

While abroad after the death of his first wife, 
Longfellow had met Mr. Nathan Appleton, a wealthy 
merchant of Boston, who was travelling with his 
family, among them his daughter Frances Eliza- 
beth. They travelled together, and enjoyed each 
other's society for a time. Then Longfellow went 
home to his duties at Harvard, while the Appletons 
still remained abroad. After his first visit to Europe 
he had published a book, — half guidebook and half 
novel, — entitled "Outre-Mer"; and now on his re- 
turn from his second sojourn, he published "Hy- 
perion," which had a more decided love-story. The 
gossips were quick to identify the hero with Long- 
fellow himself, while the heroine was as apparently 
Miss Appleton. It was even whispered about that 
she was none too well pleased with this perform- 
ance. But the friendly relations between Longfellow 
and the Appletons continued, he visited them in their 
summer home at Pittsfield after their return from 
Europe, and there became engaged to Miss Frances. 



18 LONGFELLOW 

The Writing of His Great Poem. 

After his second marriage (1843), Longfellow 
began work at once on his more serious longer 
poems. The first was "Evangeline.'* The plot had 
been offered to Hawthorne by an admiring friend, 
but he did not care to use it in a novel. A year 
and a half later Longfellow, Hawthorne, and the 
friend who had outlined the plot were dining to- 
gether, and Hawthorne was asked why he had not 
used the story. He said he did not think it alto- 
gether suitable for a novel. Longfellow immediately 
said that if Hawthorne did not care for it for a 
novel, he should like it for a poem. In 1847 *'Evan- 
geline" appeared. 

Hiawatha appeared eight years later. The material 
was collected slowly from various sources. Part of 
it was taken from such books on the subject of 
Indian legends as were accessible, especially ''Algic 
Researches." The poet's imagination was also fired 
by the accounts given him by a former pupil who 
had lived for a time among the Indians of the 
Northwest. The poem appeared in 1855. 

"The Courtship of Miles Standish" followed in 
1858, and the 'Tales of a Wayside Inn" in 1863. 

In 1861 Longfellow experienced the second great 
sorrow of his life. His wife was burned to death. 
While sealing up some curls she had just cut from 
the heads of her little girls, she dropped a match 
on the floor and it set on fire her light summer 
dress. Her husband was at work in the next room, 
and when he heard her screams he rushed to her 



LIFE 19 

assistance, smothering the flames with a rug. But 
the shock had been too severe, and she died the 
following day. 

He had two sons and three daughters, and they 
did everything they could to make his old age 
happy. In the later years of his life his birthdays 
were celebrated almost as national events, and his 
home was a Mecca for admiring pilgrims. The 
children, especially, were never turned away, and 
when he died memorial services were held in all 
the schools. 



FAVORITE POEMS 

HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
From the celestial walls! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight. 

The manifold, soft chimes, 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,- 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 
21 



22 LONGFELLOW 

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! 

Descend with broad-winged flight, 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair. 

The best-loved Night! 

A PSALM OF LIFE. 

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAH) TO THE 

PSALMIST. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream! — 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real! Life is earnest! 

And the grave is not its goal; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow. 

Is our destined end or way; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting. 
And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle. 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 

Be a hero in the strife! 



REAPER AND FLOWERS 23 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead! 
Act, — act in the living Present! 

Heart within, and God overhead! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing. 

With a heart for any fate; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 

And, with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that grow between. 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall, 

Shadows from the fitful firelight 
Dance upon the parlor wall; 

Then the forms of the departed 
Enter at the open door; 



24 LONGFELLOW 

The beloved, the true-hearted. 
Come to visit me once more; 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 
Noble longings for the strife. 

By the roadside fell and perished, 
Weary with the march of life! 

They, the holy ones and weakly. 
Who the cross of suffering bore, 

Folded their pale hands so meekly, 
Spake with us on earth no more! 

And with them the Being Beauteous, 
Who unto my youth was given. 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine. 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 
With those deep and tender eyes. 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR 25 

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, 

AH my fears are laid aside. 
If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died! 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 

Note. A skeleton in complete armor was dug up 
near Fall River, Mass., just before this poem was 
written; and the idea occurred to the poet that 
this skeleton might easily be connected with the 
Round Tower at Newport, hitherto known as the 
Old Windmill, but now (claimed) as the work of 
the early Dane explorers. Longfellow's friends, es- 
pecially some of the members of the "Five of Clubs," 
thought this ballad quite beneath his genius, and for 
a time he was inclined to believe they were right. 
But one day another friend came to visit him and 
read aloud "The Skeleton in Armour" with such 
fire and sympathy that the poet (metaphorically) 
fell on his neck and kissed him. After that his 
good opinion of the poem was unshaken. 

'Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms. 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 

Why dost thou haunt me?' 



26 LONGFELLOW 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

'I was a Viking old ! 

My deeds, though manifold. 

No Skald in song has told. 

No Saga taught thee! 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse. 
Else dread a dead man's curse; 

For this I sought thee. 

Tar in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the gerfalcon; 
And, with my skates fast-bound, 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 

'Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear, 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf s bark. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR 27 

Until the soaring lark 
Sang from the meadow. 

'But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led ; 
Many the souls that sped. 
Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 

'Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long Winter out; 
Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing. 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale. 
Draining the oaken pail. 

Filled to o'erflowing. 

'Once as I told in gle^ 
Tales of the stormy sea. 
Soft eyes did gaze on me. 

Burning yet tender; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of mine 

Fell their soft splendor. 

'I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid. 
And in the forest's shade 



28 LONGFELLOW 

Our vows were plighteA 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast, 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 

'Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall. 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 

Chanting his glory ; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 

To hear my story. 

'While the brown ale he quaffed, 
Loud then the champion laughed. 
And as the wind-gust waft 

The sea-foam brightly, 
So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those lips unshorn. 
From the deep drinking-horn 

Blew the foam lightly. 

'She was a Prince's child, 

I but a Viking wild, 

And though she blushed and smiled* 

I was discarded! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight. 
Why did they leave that night 
Her nest unguarded? 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR 29 

'Scarce had I put to sea. 
Bearing the maid with me. 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen! 
When on the white sea-strand. 
Waving his armed hand. 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 

Then launched they to the blast* 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast, 

When the wind failed us; 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 

'And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail, 
"Death!" was the helmsman's hail 

"Death without quarter !" 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel; 
Down her black hulk did reel 

Through the black water! 

*As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 

With his prey laden, — 
So toward the open main. 
Beating to sea again. 



30 LONGFELLOW 

Through the wild hurricane, 
Bore I the maiden. 

'Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o'er, 
Cloud-Hke we saw the shore 

Stretching to leeward ; 
There is my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
Which, to this very hour, 

Stands looking seaward. 

'There lived we many years; 
Time dried the maiden's tears; 
She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she hes; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another ! 

'Still grew my bosom then, 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men, 

The sunlight hateful ! 
In the vast forest here. 
Clad in my warlike gear, 
Fell I upon my spear, 

Oh, death was grateful ! 

Thus, seamed with many scars. 
Bursting these prison bars. 
Up to its native stars 



WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 31 

My soul ascended! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!' 

Thus the tale ended. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

Then^up and spake an old Sailor, 

Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 
*I pray thee, put into yonder port. 

For I fear a hurricane. 

*Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we see!* 
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 



82 LONGFELLOW 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the Northeast, 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed. 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

'Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter, 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow/ 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 
And bound her to the mast. 

'O father! I hear the church-bells ring^ 

Oh say, what may it be?' 
* Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast !' — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

'O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

Oh say, what may it be?' 
Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea!' 

'0 father! I see a gleaming light, 

Oh say, what may it be?' 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 



WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 33 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 

With his face turned to the skies, 
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
TowVds the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gust between 

A sound came from the land; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows. 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank. 
Ho! ho! the breakers roared! 



34 LONGFELLOW 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair. 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast. 

The salt tears in her eyes; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Note. This poem was written about an actual 
blacksmith-shop in Cambridge not far from Long- 
fellow's home. The poem made the shop famous, 
and many people went to see it and to see the 
^'spreading chestnut-tree" beside it. At last the shop 
had to be torn down to make room for a modern 
house; and some of the limbs were lopped from the 
chestnut-tree. This made it look so (ugly) that the 
authorities ordered it cut down. Every one was 
sorry to see it go, and the whole town (turned) 
out to watch it topple over. On the occasion of 
his seventy-second birthday the children of Cam- 
bridge presented to the poet a finely carved arm- 
chair made from the wood of the chestnut-tree, and 
Longfellow responded with a poem of thanks, which, 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 35 

however, is so inferior to "The Village Blacksmith" 
that one hardly cares to read it. 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 

The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he. 

With large and sinewy hands; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long. 

His face is like the tan; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat. 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 

You can hear his bellows blow; 
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 

With measured beat and slow. 
Like a sexton ringing the village bell. 

When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door; 
They love to see the flaming forge. 

And hear the bellows roar. 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 
And sits among his boys ; 



5 LONGFELLOW 

He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — re j oicing, — sorrowing. 

Onward through life he goes ; 
Each morning sees some task begin, 

Each evening sees it close ; 
Something attempted, something done. 

Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend. 
For the lesson thou hast taught! 
Thus at the flaming forge of life 

Our fortunes must be wrought; 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 

Each burning deed and thought. 



ENDYMION. 

The rising moon has hid the stars; 

Her level rays, like golden bars, 
Lie on the landscape green, 
With shadows brown between. 



ENDYMION 37 

And Sliver white the river gleams, 
As if Diana, in her dreams 

Had dropt her silver bow 

Upon the meadows low. 

On such a tranquil night as this. 
She woke Endymion with a kiss. 

When, sleeping in the grove, 

He dreamed not of her love. 

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, 
Love gives itself, but is not bought; 

Nor voice nor sound betrays 

Its deep, impassioned gaze. 

It comes, — the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity; — 

In silence and alone 

To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep 
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep. 

And kisses the closed eyes 

Of him who slumbering lies. 

O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes! 
O drooping souls, whose destinies 

Are fraught with fear and pain. 

Ye shall be loved again! 

No one is so accursed by fate. 
No one so utterly desolate. 

But some heart, though unknown. 

Responds unto his own. 



38 LONGFELLOW 

Responds, — as if with unseen wings, 
An angel touched its quivering strings; 

And whispers, in its song, 
"Where hast thou stayed so long?" 



THE RAINY DAY. 



./ 



The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
An the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all. 
Into each life some rain must fall. 
Some days must be dark and dreary. 



GOD^S ACRE. ' 

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls 
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; 

It consecrates each grave within its walls. 
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES ^9 

God's- Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown 

The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, 
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again 

At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 
In their fair gardens of that second birth; 

And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on 
earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare. Death, turn up the sod. 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; 

This is the field and Acre of our God, 
This is the place where human harvests grow. 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 

River! that in silence windest 

Through the meadows, bright and free, 
Till at length thy rest thou findest 

In the bosom of the sea! 

Four long years of mingled feeling, 
Half in rest, and half in strife, 
I have seen thy waters stealing 
Onward, like the stream of life. 



40 LONGFELLOW 

Thou hast taught me, Silent River! 

Many a lesson, deep and long; 
Thou hast been a generous giver: 

I can give thee but a song. 

Oft in sadness and in illness, 
I have watched thy current glide, 

Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide. 

And in better hours and brighter, 
"^^^hen I saw thy waters gleam, 

I have felt my heart beat lighter, 
And leap onward with thy stream. 

Not for this alone I love thee, 
Nor because thy waves of blue 

From celestial seas above thee 
Take their own celestial hue. 

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee. 

And thy waters disappear. 
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 

And have made thy margin dear. 

More than this ; — thy name reminds me 
Of three friends, all true and tried; 

And that name, like magic, binds me 
Closer, closer to thy side. 

Friends my soul with joy remembers! 

How like quivering flames they start. 
When I fan the living embers 

On the hearth-stone of my heart! 



MAIDENHOOD 41 



Tis for this, thou Silent River! 

That my spirit leans to thee; 
Thou hast been a generous giver, 

Take this idle song from me. 



MAIDENHOOD. 



When writing to his father of the appearance of 
his new volume of poems, Mr. Longfellow said : 
"I think the last two pieces the best, — perhaps as 
good as anything I have written." These pieces 
were the following and Excelsior. 

Maiden! with the meek brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
As the braided streamlets run! 

Standing, with reluctant feet. 
Where the brook and river meet. 
Womanhood and childhood fleet! 

Gazing, with a timid glance. 

On the brooklet's swift advance, 

On the river's broad expanse! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem. 
As the river of a dream. 



42 LONGFELLOW 

Then why pause with indecision. 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye. 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly? 

Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar? "^ 

Oh, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares! 

Care and age come unawares! 

' Like the swell of some sweet tune. 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered; — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows. 
When the young heart overflows, 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth. 
In thy heart the dew of youth, 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 



EXCELSIOR 43 

Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal, 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart. 
For a smile of God thou art. 

EXCELSIOR. 

Note. One evening when the poet had come home 
to the Craigie House late from a party, he caught 
sight of the word "Excelsior" on a piece of news- 
paper. The word fired his imagination, and he 
reached for the nearest piece of blank paper. It 
happened to be the back of a letter from Charles 
Sumner. He immediately began to write, and 
crowded the sheet with verses. The next time 
Sumner visited him, Longfellow showed him the 
letter, and he begged to have it returned to him. 
At his death Sumner bequeathed it to the Harvard 
College Library. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad; his eye beneath. 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 



44 LONGFELLOW 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
Excelsior ! 

'Try not the Pass!' the old man said; 
*Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!' 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 

'Oh, stay,' the maiden said, 'and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast!' 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

'Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! 
Beware the awful avalanche!' 
This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied, far up the height. 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of St. Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 

A traveler, by the faithful hound. 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior I 



THE SLAVE'S DREAM 45 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful he lay. 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star. 
Excelsior ! 



THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 

His sickle in his hand ; 
His breast was bare, his matted hair ' 

Was buried in the sand. 
Again, in the mist of shadow and sleep, 

He saw his Native Land. 

Wide through the landscape of his dreams 

The lordly Niger flowed; 
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain 

Once more a king he strode; 
And heard the tinkling caravans 

Descend the mountain road. 

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen 

Among her children stand, 
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, 

They held him by the hand ! — 
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids 

And fell into the sand. 

And then at furious speed he rode 
Along the Niger's bank; 



48 LONGFELLOW 

His bridle-reins were golden chains, 

And, with a martial clank. 
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel 

Smiting his stallion's flank. 

Before him, like a blood-red flag, 

The bright flamingoes flew; 
From morn till night he followed their flight, 

O'er plains where the tatmarind grew, 
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, 

And the ocean rose to view. 

At night he heard the lion roar, 

And the hyena scream. 
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds 

Beside some hidden stream; 
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, 

Through the triumph of his dream. 

The forests, with their myriad tongues. 

Shouted of liberty; 
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, 

With a voice so wild and free. 
That he started in his sleep and smiled 

At their tempestuous glee. 

He did not feel the driver's whip. 

Nor the burning heat of day; 
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, 

And his lifeless body lay 
A worn-out fetter, that the soul 

Had broken and thrown away! 



CARILLON 47 



CARILLON. 



In the ancient town of Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city, 
As the evening shades descended, 
Low and loud and sweetl^^ blended, 
Low at times and loud at times. 
And changing like a poet's rhymes, 
Rang the beautiful wild chimes 
From the Belfry in the market 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 
Then, with deep sonorous clangor 
Calmly answering their sweet anger. 
When the wrangling bells had endedj. 
Slowly struck the clock eleven. 
And, from out the silent heaven. 
Silence on the town descended. 
Silence, silence everywhere. 
On the earth and in the air, 
Save that footsteps here and there 
Of some burgher home returning, 
By the street lamps faintly burning. 
For a moment woke the echoes 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

But amid my broken slumbers 
Still I heard those magic numbers. 
As they loud proclaimed the flight 
And stolen marches of the night; 
Till their chimes in sweet collision 
Mingled with each wandering vision, 
Mingled with the fortune-telling 



48 LONGFELLOW 

Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, 
Which amid the waste expanses 
Of the silent land of trances 
Have their solitary dwelling; 
All else seemed asleep in Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city. 

And I thought how like these chimes 
Are the poet's airy rhymes, 
All his rhymes and roundelays, 
His conceits, and songs, and ditties, 
From the belfry of his brain. 
Scattered downward, though in vain, 
On the roofs and stones of cities! 
For by night the drowsy ear 
Under its curtains cannot hear. 
And by day men go their ways. 
Hearing the music as they pass. 
But deeming it no more, alas! 
Than the hollow sound of brass. 
Yet perchance a sleepless wight. 
Lodging at some humble inn 
In the narrow lanes of life. 
When the dusk and hush of night 
Shut out the incessant din 
Of daylight and its toil and strife. 
May listen with a calm delight 
To the poet's melodies, 
Till he hears, or dreams he hears, 
Intermingled with the song, 
Thoughts that he had cherished long; 
Hears amid the chime and singing 



BELFRY OF BRUGES 49 

The bells of his own village ringing, 
And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes 
Wet with most delicious tears. 

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay 
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening with a wild delight 
To the chimes that, through the night, 
Rang their changes from the Belfry 
Of that quaint old Flemish city. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry 

old and brown; 
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it 

watches o'er the town. 

As the summer morn was breaking, on ^at lofty 

tower I stood. 
And the world threw off the darkness, like the 

weeds of widowhood. 

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with 

streams and vapors gray. 
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast 

the landscape lay. 

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, 

here and there. 
Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, 

ghost-like, into air. 



50 LONGFELLOW 

Not a sound rose from the city at that early morn- 
ing hour, 

But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient 
tower. 

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swal- 
lows wild and high ; 

And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more 
distant than the sky. 

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the 
olden times. 

With their strange, unearthly changes rang the mel- 
ancholy chimes. 

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the 

nuns sing in the choir ; 
And the great bell tolled among them, like the 

chanting of a friar. 

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms 

filled my brain; 
They who live in history only seemed to walk the 

earth again ; 

All the Foresters of Flanders, — mighty Baldwin 

Bras de Fer, 
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dam- 

pierre. 

I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those 

days of old; 
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who 

bore the Fleece of Gold; 



BELFRY OF BRUGES 51 

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden 

argosies ; 
Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal 

pomp and ease. 

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the 

ground ; 
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk 

and hound; 

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept 

with the queen. 
And the armed guard around them, and the sword 

unsheathed between. 

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and 

Juliers bold. 
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the 

Spurs of Gold; 

Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods 

moving west. 
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden 

Dragon's nest. 

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with 
terror smote; 

And again the wild alarum sounded from the toc- 
sin's throat; 

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er the lagoon 

and dike of sand, 
*'l am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in 

the land!" 



52 LONGFELLOW 

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awak- 
ened citj^'s roar 

Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into 
their graves once more. 

Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I 
was aware, 

Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illu- 
mined square. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary. 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys! 
What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 
The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

Which, through the ages that have gone before us. 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer. 
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's 
song, 

And loud, amid the universal clamor, 
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 



ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD 53 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 
With such accursed instruments as these, 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, 
And j arrest the celestial harmonies? 

Were half the power that fills the world with terror, 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and 
courts, 

Given to redeem the human mind from error. 
There were no need of arsenals or forts: 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred! 

And every nation, that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain! 

Down the dark future, through long generations. 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; 



54 LONGFELLOW 

And, like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace !" 

Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals 
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! 

But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 

NUREMBERG. 

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad 

meadow-lands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, 

the ancient, stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town 

of art and song. 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks 

that round them throng: 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, 

rough and bold, 
Had their dwellings in thy castle, time-defying, 

centuries old; 
And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in 

their uncouth rhyme, 
That their great imperial city stretched its hand 

through every clime. 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an 

iron band, 
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cuni- 

gunde's hand; 



NUREMBERG 55 

On the square the oriel window, where in old 

heroic days 
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's 

praise. 

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous 

world of Art: 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing 

in the common mart; 

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops 

carved in stone, 
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our 

own. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his 

holy dust, 
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age 

to age their trust; 

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of 

sculpture rare. 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through 

the painted air. 

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, 

reverent heart. 
Lived and labored Albrecht Diirer, the Evangelist 

of Art; 

Hence in silence and in sorror, toiling still with 
busy hand, 

Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Bet- 
ter Land. 



66 LONGFELLOW 

Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where 

he lies; 
Dead he is not, but departed, — for the artist never 

dies. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine 

seems more fair, 
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once 

has breathed its air! 

Through these streets so broad and stately, these 

obscure and dismal lanes, 
Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude 

poetic strains. 

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the 

friendly guild. 
Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts 

the swallows build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the 

mystic rhyme. 
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the 

anvil's chime; 

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the 

flowers of poesy bloom 
In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of 

the loom. 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the 

gentle craft, 
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios 

sang and laughed. 



NUREMBERG 57 

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely 

sanded floor, 
And a garland in the window, and his face above 

the door; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Pusch- 

man's song. 
As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great 

beard white and long. 

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown 

his cark and care. 
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's 

antique chair. 

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my 

dreamy eye 
Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded 

tapestry. 

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the 

world's regard ; 
But thy painter, Albrecht Diirer, and Hans Sachs 

thy cobbler bard. 

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region lar 

away, 
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in 

thought his careless lay: 

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a flower- 
let of the soil, 
The nobility of labor, — the long pedigree of toil. 



58 LONGFELLOW 

THE NORMAN BARON. 

In his chamber, weak and dying, 
Was the Norman baron lying; 
Loud, without, the tempest thundered, 
And the castle-turret shook. 

In this fight was Death the gainer. 

Spite of vassal and retainer, 
And the lands his sires had plundered, 
Written in the Doomsday Book. 

By his bed a monk was seated, 
Who in humble voice repeated 
Many a prayer and pater-noster, 
From the missal on his knee; 

And, amid the tempest pealing, 
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, 
Bells, that from the neighboring kloster 
Rang for the Nativity. 

In the hall, the serf and vassal 
Held, that night, their Christmas wassail ; 
Many a carol, old and saintly, 
Sang the minstrels and the waits ; 

And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen. 
That the storm was heard but faintly, 
Knocking at the castle-gates. 

Till at length the lays they chanted 
Reached the chamber terror-haunted 
Where the monk, with accents holy, 
Whispered at the baron's ear. 



THE NORMAN BARON 59 

Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 
As he paused awhile and listened , 
And the dying baron slowly 
Turned his weary head to hear. 

'Wassail for the kingly stranger 
Born and cradled in a manger! 
King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 
Christ is born to set us free !' 

And the lightning showed the sainted 
Figures on the casement painted. 
And exclaimed the shuddering baron, 
'Miserere, Domine!' 

In that hour of deep contrition 
He beheld, with clearer vision. 
Through all outward show and fashion, 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 

All the pomp of earth had vanished. 
Falsehood and deceit were banished, 
Reason spake more loud than passion, 
And the truth wore no disguise. 

Every vassal of his banner. 
Every serf born to his manor, 
All those wronged and wretched creatures, 
By his hand were freed again. 

And, as on the sacred missal 
He recorded their dismissal. 
Death relaxed his iron features. 
And the monk replied, 'Amen !' 



60 LONGFELLOW 

Many centuries have been numbered 
Since in death the baron slumbered 
By the convent's sculptured portal, 
Mingling with the common dust: 

But the good deed, through the ages 
Living in historic pages, 
Brighter grows and gleams immortal, 
Unconsumed by moth or rust. 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 

How beautiful is the rain! 
After the dust and heat. 
In the broad and fiery street, 
In the narrow lane, 
How beautiful is the rain! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout! 

Across the window-pane 

It pours and pours ; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 
At the twisted brooks; 



RAIN IN SUMMER 61 

He can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool; 

His fevered brain 

Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighboring school 

Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noise 

And commotion ; 

And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets, 

Till the treacherous pool 

Ingulfs them in its whirling 

And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side, 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, 

Stretches the plain. 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale. 

And the vapors that arise 

From the well-watered and smoking soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 



62 LOXGFELLOW 

Seem to thank the Lord, 
More than man's spoken word 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees. 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain, 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these, 

The Poet sees! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air: 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain, 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 

Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told ;— 

Have not been wholly sung nor said. 

For his thought, that never stops, 

Follows the water-drops 

Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 



THE BRIDGE 6 

To the dreary fountain-head 
Of lakes and rivers under ground; 
And sees them, when the rain is done, 
On the bridge of colors seven 
Climbing up once more to heaven, 
Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear. 

Sees forms appear and disappear. 

In the perpetual round of strange, 

Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to birth, 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; 

Till glimpses more sublime 

Of things unseen before, 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning forevermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 



THE BRIDGE. 

I STOOD on the bridge at midnight. 
As the clocks were striking the iiour. 

And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

In the waters under me, 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 



64 LONGFELLOW 

And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 

The wavering shadows lay, 
And the current that came from the ocean 

Seemed to lift and bear them away; 

As, sweeping and eddying through them, 

Rose the belated tide, 
And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The seaweed floated wide. 

And like those waters rushing 

Among the wooden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came o'er me 

That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, oh how often. 
In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight 
And gazed on that wave and sky! 

How often, oh how often, 
I had wished that the ebbing tide 

Would bear me away on its bosom 
O'er the ocean old and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 
And my life was full of care. 

And the burden laid upon me 
Seemed greater than I could bear. 



THE BRIDGE 65 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea ; 
And only the sorrows of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 

On its bridge with wooden piers, 
Like the odor of brine from the ocean 

Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men, 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Stll passing to and fro, 
The young heart hot and restless. 

And the old subdued and slow ! 

And forever and forever, 

As long as the river flows, 
As long as the heart has passions. 

As long as life has woes; 

The moon and its broken reflection 

And its shadows shall appear. 
As the symbol of love in heaven. 

And its wavering image here. 



66 LONGFELLOW 

THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 

That my soul cannot resist: 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem, 
Some simple and heartfelt lay. 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters. 
Not from the bards sublime. 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music. 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor; 
And to-night I long for rest. 



THE DAY IS DONE 67 

Read from some humbler poet, 
Whose songs gushed from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds of summer. 
Or tears from the eyelids start; 

Who, through long days of labor. 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care, 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice. 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares, that infest the day, 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 



68 LONGFELLOW 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 

Note. The clock that suggested this poem stood 
on the stairway at the home of Nathan Appleton, in 
Pittsfield, Mass., where the Appletons spent their 
summers and where Longfellow visited them before 
his marriage to Miss Frances Elizabeth. 

Somewhat back from the village street 

Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 

Across its antique portico 

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; 

And from its station in the hall 

An ancient timepiece says to all, — 

* Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! ' 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 
And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 
Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 
With a sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 
' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! * 

By day its voice is low and light; 

But in the silent dead of night, 

Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 

It echoes along the vacant hall, 

Along the ceiling, along the floor. 

And seems to say, at each chamber-door,^ 

* Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! * 



OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS 69 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood. 
And as if, like God, it all things saw, 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 
' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! * 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 
His great fires up the chimney roared; 
The stranger feasted at his board; 
But, like the skeleton at the feast. 
That warning timepiece never ceased, — 
* Forever — never \ 
Never — forever ! ' 

There groups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; 
O precious hours 1 O golden prime, 
And affluence of love and time ! 
Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 
' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! * 

From that chamber, clothed in white. 
The bride came forth on her wedding night; 
There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow; 



70 LONGFELLOW 

And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 

* Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! ' 

All are scattered now and fled, 
Some are married, some are dead; 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
* Ah ! when shall they all meet again ? ' 
As in the days long since gone by, 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 

* Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! ' 

Never here, forever there. 
Where all parting, pain, and care. 
And death, and time shall disappear, — 
Forever there, but never here ! 
The horologue of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 

' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! ' 



THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 

I shot an arrow into the air. 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 



CURFEW 71 

For who has sight so keen and strong, 
That it can follow the flight of song? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke ; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 

CURFEW. 

Solemnly, mournfully, 

Dealing its dole. 
The Curfew Bell 

Is beginning to toll. 

Cover the embers, 

And put out the light ; 
Toil comes with the morning, 

And rest with the night. 

Dark grow the windows, 

And quenched is the fire ; 
Sound fades into silence, — 

All footsteps retire. 

No voice in the chambers, 

No sound in the hall! 
Sleep and oblivion 

Reign over all ! 

The book is completed, 

And closed, like the day; 
And the hand that has written it 

Lays it away. 



72 LONGFELLOW 

Dim grows its fancies; 

Forgotten they lie; 
Like coals in the ashes, 

They darken and die. 

Song sinks into silence, 

The story is told, 
The windows are darkened. 

The hearth-stone is cold. 

Darker and darker 

The black shadows fall; 
Sleep and oblivion 

Reign over all. 

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 

'Build me straight, O worthy Master! 

Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!' 

The merchant's word 

Delighted the Master heard; 

For his heart was in his work, and the heart 

Giveth grace unto every Art. 

A quiet smile played round his lips. 

As the eddies and dimples of the tide 

Play round the bows of ships. 

That steadily at anchor ride. 

And with a voice that was full of glee. 

He answered, 'Erelong we will launch 

A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch, 



BUILDING OF THE SHIP 73 

As ever weathered a wintry sea!' 

And first with nicest skill and art, 

Perfect and finished in every part, 

A little model the Master wrought, 

Which should be to the larger plan 

What the child is to the man, 

Its counterpart in miniature; 

That with a hand more swift and sure 

The greater labor might be brought 

To answer to his inward thought. 

And as he labored, his mind ran o'er 

The various ships that were built of yore, 

And above them all, and strangest of all 

Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 

Whose picture was hanging on the wall. 

With bows and stern raised high in air. 

And balconies hanging here and there, 

And signal lanterns and flags afloat. 

And eight round towers, like those that frown 

From some old castle, looking down 

Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 

And he said with a smile, 'Our ship, I wis, 

Shall be of another form than this !' 

It was of another form, indeed; 

Built for freight, and yet for speed, 

A beautiful and gallant craft ; 

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast. 

Pressing down upon sail and mast. 

Might not the sharp bows overwhelm; 

Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 

With graceful curve and slow degrees. 

That she might be docile to the helm, 



74 LONGFELLOW 

And that the currents of parted seas, 
Closing behind, with mighty force, 
Might aid and not impede her course. 

In the ship-yard stood the Master, 
With the model of the vessel. 
That should laugh at all disaster. 
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle! 

Covering many a rood of ground. 

Lay the timber piled around; 

Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak. 

And scattered here and there, with these, 

The knarred and crooked cedar knees; 

Brought from regions far away. 

From Pascagoula's sunny bay. 

And the banks of the roaring Roanoke! 

Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is 

To note how many wheels of toil 

One thought, one word, can set in motion! 

There's not a ship that sails the ocean. 

But every climate, every soil. 

Must bring its tribute, great or small. 

And help to build the wooden wall ! 

The sun was rising o'er the sea, 
And, long the level shadows lay. 
As if they, too, the beams would be 
Of some great, airy argosy. 
Framed and launched in a single day. 
That silent architect, the sun. 
Had hewn and laid them every one. 
Ere the work of man was yet begun. 



BUILDING OF THE SHIP 75 

Beside the Master, when he spoke, 
A youth, against an anchor leaning, 
Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. 
Only the long waves, as they broke 
In ripples on the pebbly beach. 
Interrupted the old man's speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth, 

The old man and the fiery youth ! 

The old man, in whose busy brain 

Many a ship that sailed the main 

Was modeled o'er and o'er again ; — 

The fiery youth, who was to be 

The heir of his dexterity. 

The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand, 

When he had built and launched from land 

What the elder head had planned. 

Thus,' said he, 'will we build this ship ! 

Lay square the blocks upon the slip, 

And follow well this plan of mine. 

Choose the timbers with greatest care; 

Of all that is unsound beware ; 

For only what is sound and strong 

To this vessel shall belong. 

Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 

Here together shall combine. 

A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, 

And the Union be her name ! 

For the day that gives her to the sea 

Shall give my daughter unto thee!' 



78 LONGFELLOW 

The Master's word 

Enraptured the young man heard ; 

And as he turned his face aside, 

With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, 

Standing before 

Her father's door, 

He saw the form of his promised bride. 

The sun shone on her golden hair, 

And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair. 

With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. 

Like a beauteous barge was she, 

Still at rest on the sandy beach. 

Just beyond the billow's reach ; 

But he 

Was the restless, seething, stormy seal 

Ah! how skilful grows the hand 

That obeyed Love's eommand ! 

It is the heart, and not the brain, 

That to the highest doth attain. 

And he who followeth Love's behest 

Far excelleth all the rest! 

Thus with the rising of the sun 

Was the noble task begun. 

And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds 

Were heard the intermingled sounds 

Of axes and mallets, plied 

With vigorous arms on every side; 

Plied so deftly and so well. 

That, ere the shadows of evening fell, 

The keel of oak for a noble ship. 

Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong. 



BUILDING OF THE SHIP 77 

Was lying ready, and stretched along 
The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 
Happy, thrice happy, every one 
Who sees his labor well begun, 
And not perplexed and multiplied, 
By idly waiting for time and tide! 

And when the hot, long day was o*er. 

The young man at the Master's door 

Sat with the maiden calm and still, 

And within the porch, a little more 

Removed beyond the evening chill, 

The father sat, and told them tales 

Of wrecks in the great September gales, 

Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main, 

And ships that never came back again, 

The chance and change of a sailor's life, 

Want and plenty, rest and strife, 

His roving fancy, like the wind, 

That nothing can stay and nothing can bind. 

And the magic charm of foreign lands, 

With shadows of palms and shining sands, 

Where the tumbling surf. 

O'er the coral reefs at Madagascar, 

Washes the feet of swarthy Lascar, 

As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. 

And the trembling maiden held her breath 

At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 

With all its terror and mystery, 

The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, 

That divides and yet unites mankind! 

And whenever the old man paused, a gleam 



78 LONGFELLOW 

From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume 
The silent group in the twilight gloom, 
And thoughtful faces, as in a dream; 
And for a moment one might mark 
What had been hidden in the dark, 
That the head of the maiden lay at rest. 
Tenderly, on the young man's breast! 

Day by day the vessel grew. 

With timbers fashioned strong and true, 

Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, 

Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 

A skeleton, ship rose up to view ! 

And around the bows and along the side 

The heavy hammers and mallets plied, 

Till after many a week at length, 

Wonderful for form and strength. 

Sublime in its enormous bulk, 

Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk! 

And around it columns of smoke, upwreatking, 

Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 

Caldron that glowed, 

And overflowed 

With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. 

And amid the clamors 

Of clattering hammers, 

He who listened heard now and then 

The song of the master and his men: — 

'Build me straight, O worthy Master, 
Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel. 

That shall laugh at all disaster. 

And with wind and whirlwind wrestle !' 



BUILDING OF THE SHIP 79 

With oaken brace and copper band, 

Lay the rudder on the sand, 

That, like a thought, should have control 

Over the movement of the whole; 

And near it the anchor, whose giant hand 

Would reach down and grapple with the land, 

And immovable and fast 

Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast ! 

And at the bows an image stood. 

By a cunning artist carved in wood, 

With robes of white, that far behind 

Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 

It was not shaped in a classic mould, 

Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 

Or Naiad rising from the water. 

But modeled from the Master's daughter! 

On many a dreary and misty night, 

'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light, 

Speeding along through the rain and the dark, 

Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 

The pilot of some phantom bark, 

Guiding the vessel in its flight. 

By a path none other knows aright i 

Behold, at last, 
Each tall and tapering mast 
Is swung into its place; 
Shrouds and stays 
Holding it firm and fast! 

Long ago. 

In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 

When upon mountain and plain 



80 LONGFELLOW 

Lay the snow, 

They fell, — those lordly pines! 

Those grand, majestic pines! 

'Mid shouts and cheers 

The jaded steers, 

Panting beneath the goad, 

Dragged down the weary, winding road 

Those captive kings so straight and tall, 

To be shorn of their streaming hair, 

And naked and bare, 

To feel the stress and the strain 

Of the wind and the reeling main. 

Whose roar 

Would remind them forevermore 

Of their native forests they should not see again. 

And everywhere 

The slender, graceful spars 

Poise aloft in the air. 

And at the mast-head, 

White, blue and red, 

A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 

Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, 

In foreign harbors shall behold 

That flag unrolled, 

'T will be as a friendly hand 

Stretched out from his native land, 

Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless ! 

All is finished ! and at length 

Has come the bridal day 

Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched! 



BUILDING OF THE SHIP 81 

With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 

And o'er the bay, 

Slowly in all its splendors dight, 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old. 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 

Paces restlessly to and fro. 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His breathing heart is not at rest; 

And far and wide. 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands. 

Decked with flags and streamers gay, 

In honor of her marriage day, 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 

Round her like a veil descending. 

Ready to be 

The bride of the grey old sea. 

On the deck another bride 
Is standing by her lover's side. 
Shadows from the flags and shrouds. 
Like the shadows cast by clouds. 
Broken by many a sudden fleck, 
Fall around them on the deck. 
The prayer is said, 
The service read. 



LONGFELLOW 

The joyous bridegroom bows his head; 

And in tears the good old Master 

Shakes the brown hand of his son, 

Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 

In silence, for he cannot speak, 

And ever faster 

Down his own the tears begin to run, 

The worthy pastor — 

The shepherd of that wondering flock, 

That has the ocean for its wold, 

That has the vessel for its fold. 

Leaping ever from rock to rock — > 

Spake, with accents mild and clear. 

Words of warning, words of cheer. 

But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 

He knew the chart 

Of the sailor's heart, 

All its pleasures and all its griefs. 

All its shadows and rocky reefs. 

All those secret currents, that flow 

With such resistless undertow. 

And lift and drift, with terrible force. 

The will from its moorings and its course. 

Therefore he spake, and thus said he: — 

'Like unto ships far off at sea, 

Outward or homeward bound, are we. 

Before, behind, and all around. 

Floats and swings the horizon's bound. 

Seems at its distant rim to rise 

And climb the crystal wall of the skies. 

And then again to turn and sink. 



BUILDING OF THE SHIP 83 

As if we could slide from its outer brink. 

Ah! it is not the sea, 

It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, 

But ourselves 

That rock and rise 

With endless and uneasy motion, 

Now touching the very skies, 

Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 

Ah! if our souls but poise and swing 

Like the compass in its brazen ring. 

Ever level and ever true 

To the toil and the task we have to do, 

We shall sail securely, and safely reach 

The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 

The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, 

Will be those of joy and not of fear!' 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command. 

Waved his hand; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was hear^, 

All around and then below. 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow. 

Knocking away the shores and spurs, 

And see! she stirs! 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground. 

With one exulting, joyous bound. 

She leaps into the ocean's arms! 

And lo! from the assembled crowd 



84 LONGFELLOW 

There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 

That to the ocean seemed to say, 

Take her, O bridegroom, old and grey, 

Take her to thy protecting arms, 

With all her youth and all her charms!' 

How beautiful she is! How fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer I 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust! 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives! 
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 
Humanity with all its fears. 
With all the hopes of future years. 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate! 
We know what Master laid thy keel, 
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 



WARDEN OF CINQUE PORTS 85 

In what a forge and what a heat 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

T is of the wave and not the rock ; 

T is but the flapping of the sail, 

And not a rent made by the gale! 

In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore. 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears. 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 

Are all with thee,— are all with thee! 

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS 

A mist was driving down the British Channel, 

The day was just begun. 
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, 

Streamed the red autumn sun. 

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, 

And the white sails of ships; 
And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon 

Hailed it with feverish lips. 

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover 

Were all alert that day. 
To see the French war-steamers speeding over, 

When the fog cleared away. 

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, 
Their cannon, through the night. 



86 LONGFELLOW 

Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, 
. The sea-coast opposite. 

And now they roared at drum-beat from their sta- 
tions 

On every citadel; 
Each answering each, with morning salutations, 

That all was well. 

And dov/n the coast, all taking up the burden, 

Replied the distant forts. 
As if to summon from his sleep the Warden 

And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 

No drum-beat from the wall. 
No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure, 

Awaken with its call ! 

No more, surveying with an eye impartial 

The long line of the coast, 
Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal 

Be seen upon his post! 

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, 

In sombre harness mailed. 
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, 

The rampart wall had scaled. 

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper. 

The dark and silent room, 
And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper. 

The silence and the gloom. 



MY LOST YOUTH 87 

He did not pause to parley or dissemble, 

But smote the Warden hoar; 
Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble 

And groan from shore to shore. 

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, 

The sun rose bright o'er head; 
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 

That a great man was dead. 



MY LOST YOUTH. 

Often I think of the beautiful town 

That is seated by the sea; 
Often in thought go up and down 
The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 
And my youth comes back to me. 
And a verse of a Lapland song 
Is haunting my memory still : 
*A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' 

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 

And catch, in sudden gleams. 
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas. 
And the islands that were the Hesperides 
Of all my boyish dreams. 
And the burden of that old song, 
It murmurs and whispers still: 
*A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts/ 



88 LONGFELLOW 

I remember the black wharves and the slip^ 

And the sea-tides tossing free; 
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 
And the magic of the sea. 
And the voice of that wayward song 
Is singing and saying still : 
*A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.* 

I remember the bulwarks by the shore. 

And the fort upon the hill; 
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar. 
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, 
And the bugle wild and shrill, 
And the music of that old song 
Throbs in my memory still : 
'A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.* 

I remember the sea-fight far away. 

How it thundered o'er the tide! 
And the dead captains, as they lay 
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay 
Where they in battle died. 

And the sound of that mournful song 
Goes through me with a thrill : 
*A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.* 

I can see the breezy dome of groves 
The shadows of Deering's Woods; 
And the friendships old and the early loves 



MY LOST YOUTH 89 

Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves 
In quiet neighborhoods. 

And the voice of that sweet old song 

It flutters and murmurs still: 

*A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts/ 

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart 

Across the school-boy's brain; 
The song and the silence in the heart, 
That in part are prophecies, and in part 
Are longings wild and vain. 
And the voice of that fitful song 
Sings on, and is never still: 
'A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' 

There are things of which I may not speak; 

There are dreams that cannot die; 
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, 
And bring a pallor into the cheek, 
And a mist before the eye. 
And the words of that fatal song 
Come over me like a chill: 
'A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts' 

Strange to me now are the forms I meet 

When I visit the dear old town; 
But the native air is pure and sweet. 
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known 
street, 

As they balance up and down. 



90 LONGFELLOW 

Are singing the beautiful song, 
Are sighing and whispering still : 
*A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' 

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair. 

And with joy that is almost pain 
My heart goes back to wander there, 
And among the dreams of the days that were, 
I find my lost youth again. 
And the strange and beautiful song. 
The groves are repeating it still: 
*A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' 



THE BUILDERS. 

All are architects of Fate, 
Working in these walls of Time; 

Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low; 

Each thing in its place is best; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 
Are the blocks with which we build. 



THE BUILDERS 91 

Truly shape and fashion these; 

Leave no yawning gap between; 
Think not, because no man sees, 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part 

For the Gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well, 

Both the unseen and the seen ; 
Make the house, where Gods may dwell, 

Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete. 
Standing in these walls of Time, 

Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, stroVig and sure. 

With a firm and ample base ; 
And ascending and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 
Sees the world as one vast plain. 

And one boundless reach of sky. 



2 LONGFELLOW 

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. 

MAY 28, 1857. 

It was fifty years ago 
In the pleasant month of May 

In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, 
A child in its cradle lay. 

And Nature, the old nurse, took 

The child upon her knee, 
Saying: *Here is a story-book 

Thy Father has written for thee.' 

'Come, wander with me,' she said, 

Into regions yet untrod; 
And read what is still unread 

In the manuscripts of God.' 

And he wandered away and away 
With Nature, the dear old nurse, 

Who sang to him night and day 
The rhymes of the universe. 

And whenever the way seemed long. 

Or his heart began to fail 
She would sing a more wonderful song, 

Or tell a more marvellous tale. 

So she keeps him still a child, 

And will not let him go, 
Though at times his heart beats wild 

For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; 



CHILDREN 

Though at times he hears in his dreams 
The Ranz des Vaches of old, 

And the rush of mountain streams 
From glaciers clear and cold; 

And the mother at home says, 'Hark! 

For his voice I listen and yearn; 
It is growing late and dark, 

And my boy does not return 1' 



CHILDREN. 

Come to me, O ye children! 

For I hear you at your play, 
And the questions that perplexed me 

Have vanished quite away. 

Ye open the eastern windows. 

That look towards the sun, 
Where thoughts are singing swallows 

And the brooks of morning rur 

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, 
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow; 

But in mine is the wind of Autumn 
And the first fall of the snow. 

Ah! what would the world be to us 

If the children were no more? 
We should dread the desert behind us 

Worse than the dark before. 



94 LONGFELLOW 

What the leaves are to the forest, 
With Hght and air for food, 

Ere their sweet and tender juices 
Have been hardened into wood, — 

That to the world are children; 

Through them it feels the glow 
Of a brighter and sunnier climate 

Than reaches the trunks below. 

Come to me, O ye children! 

And whisper in my ear 
What the birds and the winds are singing 

In your sunny atmosphere. 

For what are all our contrivings, 
And the wisdom of our books, 

When compared with your caresses, 
And the gladness of your looks? 

Ye are better than all the ballads 
That ever were sung or said; 

For ye are living poems, 
And all the rest are dead. 

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower. 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations. 
That is known as the Children's Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 
The patter of little feet. 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR 95 

The sound of a door that is opened, 
And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 

Descending the broad hall stair, 
Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, 

And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence : 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 

A sudden raid from the hall ! 
By three doors left unguarded 

They enter my castle wall ! 

They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my chair; 

If I try to escape, they surround me; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses. 

Their arms about me entwicie. 
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 

In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all! 



96 LONGFELLOW 

I have you fast in my fortress, 
And will not let you depart, 
But put you down into the dungeon 
In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day. 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away! 



THE CUMBERLAND. 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 

On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ; 
And at times from the fortress across the bay 
The alarum of drums swept past. 
Or a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 

Then far away to the south uprose 

A little feather of snow-white smoke, 
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
Was steadily steering its course 
To try the force 
Of our ribs of oak. 

Down upon us heavily runs, 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort; 
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns. 
And leaps the terrible death, 
With fiery breath, 
From each open port. 



THE CUMBERLAND 97 

We are not idle, but send her straight 
Defiance back in a full broadside! 
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate 
Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 

'Strike your flag!* the rebel cries, 

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
'Never!' our gallant Morris replies; 
'It is better to sink than to yield!' 
And the whole air pealed 
With the cheers of our men. 

Then, like a kraken huge and black, 
She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! 
Down went the Cumberland all awrack, 
With a sudden shudder of death, 
And the cannon's breath 
For her dying gasp. 

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 

Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. 
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! 
Every waft of the air 
Was a whisper of prayer. 
Or a dirge for the dead. 

Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! 

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; 
Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, 
Thy flag, that is rent in twain. 
Shall be one again, 
And without a seam ! 



98 LONGFELLOW 

BEWARE! 

(Hiit du dich!) 

From the German. 

I KNOW a maiden fair to see, 

Take care ! 
She can both false and friendly be, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has two eyes, so soft and brown, 

Take care ! 
She gives a side-glance and looks down, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She IS fooling thee ! 

And she has hair of a golden hue, 

Take care! 
And what she says, it is not true, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has a bosom as white as snow. 

Take care ! 
She knows how much it is best to show, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 
She is fooling thee ! 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE 99 

She gives thee a garland woven fair, 

Take care ! 
It is a foors-cap for thee to wear, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is f ooHng thee ! 

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. 

Listen^ my children, and you shall hear 

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; 

Hardly a man is now alive 

Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friends, Tf the British march 

By land or sea from the town to-night, 

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 

Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — 

One, if by land, and two, if by sea; / 

And I on the opposite shore will be. 

Ready to ride and spread the alarm 

Through every Middlesex village and farm. 

For the country folk to be up and to arm.' 

Then he said, *Good night!' and with muffled oar 

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 

Just as the moon rose over the bay. 

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 

The Somerset, British man-of-war; 

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 

Across the moon like a prison bar. 

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 

By its own reflection in the tide, 

LOFC 



100 LONGFELLOW 

Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers. 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, 

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread. 

To the belfry-chamber overhead. 

And startled the pigeons from their perch 

On the sombre rafters, that round him made 

Masses and moving shapes and shade, — 

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 

To the highest window in the wall. 

Where he paused to listen and look down 

A moment on the roofs of the town, 

And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 

In their night-encampment on the hill. 

Wrapped in silence so deep and still 

That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 

The watchful night-wind, as it went 

Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And seeming to whisper, *A11 is well!' 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead; 

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 

On a shadowy something far away, 

Where the river widens to meet the bay,— 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE 101 

A line of black that bends and floats 
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 

Now he patted his horse's side, ' 

Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 

Then, impetuous, stamped the earth. 

And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; 

But mostly he watched with eager search 

The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, 

As it rose above the graves on the hill. 

Lonely and spectral, sombre and still. 

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
A glimmer and then a gleam of light! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 

A hurry of hoofs in the village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark. 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet : 

That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the 

light. 
The fate of a nation was riding that night; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, 
^Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

He has left the village and mounted the steep, 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep. 



102 LONGFELLOW 

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; 
And under the alders that skirt its edge, 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock. 

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 

He heard the crowing of the cock, 
And the barking of the farmer's dog, 
And left the damp of the river fog, 
ihac rises after the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock, 

When he galloped into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weathercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 

And the meeting-house windows, blank aiid barCy 

Gaze at him wnth a spectral glare, 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock. 

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock,* 

And the twitter of birds among the trees, 

And felt the breath of the morning breeze 

Blowing over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 

Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 

Who that day would be lying dead. 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. 



BIRDS OF KILLINGVVORTH 103 

You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
From behind each fence and farmyard wall, 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 

To every Middlesex village and farm, — 

A cry of defiance and not of fear, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 

And a word that shall echo forevermore! 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 

Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 
The people will waken and listen to hear 
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed. 
And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 

THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 

It was the season, when through all the land 
The merle and mavis build, and building sing 

Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand. 
Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blithe-heart King; 

When on the boughs the purple buds expand. 

The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, 
And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap. 
And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. 



104 LONGFELLOW 

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, 

Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; 

The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud 
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; 

And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, 
Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly. 

Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: 

'Give us, O Lord, this day, our daily bread !* 

Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed. 
Speaking some unknown language strange and 
sweet 

Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed 
The village with the cheers of all their fleet; 

Or, quarreling together, laughed and railed 
Like foreign sailors, landed in the street 

Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise 

Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys. 

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, 
In fabulous days, some hundred years ago; 

And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth. 
Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, 

That mingled with the universal mirth, 
Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; 

They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful 
words 

To swift destruction the whole race of birds. 

And a town-meeting was convened straightway 

To set a price upon the guilty heads 
Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, 

Levied blackmail upon the garden beds 



BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 105 

And cornfields, and beheld without dismay 

The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds; 
The skeleton that waited at their feast, 
Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. 

Then from his house, a temple painted white, 
With fluted columns, and a roof of red. 

The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight! 
Slowly descending, with majestic tread, 

Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, 
Down the long street he walked, as one who said, 

'A town that boasts inhabitants like me 

Can have no lack of good society !' 

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, 
The instinct of whose nature was to kill; 

The wrath of God he preached from year to year, 
And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will; 

His favorite pastime was to slay the deer 
In Summer on some Adirondac hill ; 

E'en now, while walking down the rural lane, 

He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. 

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned 
The hill of Science with its vane of brass. 

Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round. 
Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass. 

And all absorbed in reveries profound 
Of fair Almira in the upper class. 

Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, 

As pure as water, and as good as bread. 



106 LONGFELLOW 

And next the Deacon issued from his door, 
In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow; 

A suit of sable bombazine he wore; 

His form was ponderous, and his step was slow; 

There never was so wise a man before; 

He seemed the incarnate 'Well, I told you so!* 

And to perpetuate his great renown 

There was a street named after him in town. 

These came together in the new town-hall, 

' With sundry farmers from the region round, 

The Squire presided, dignified and tall. 

His air impressive and his reasoning sound; 
111 fared it with the birds, both great and small ; 

Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, 
But enemies enough, who every one 
Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. 

When they had ended, from his place apart 
Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong. 

And, trembling like a steed before the start. 
Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng; 

Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart 
To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, 

Alike regardless of their smile or frown. 

And quite determined not to be laughed down. 

'Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 
From his Republic banished without pity 

The Poets; in this little town of yours. 
You put to death, by means of a Committee, 

The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, 
The street-musicians of the heavenly city, 



BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 107 

The birds, who make sweet music for us all 
In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 

The thrush that carols at the dawn of day 
From the green steeples of the piny wood; 

The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, 
Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; 

The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray. 
Flooding with melody the neighborhood; 

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng 

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. 

You slay them all ! and wherefore ? for the gain 
Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, 

Or rye, or barley, or some other grain. 

Scratched up at random by industrious feet, 

Searching for worm or weevil after rain! 
Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet 

As are the songs these uninvited guests 

Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. 

*Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? 

Do you ne'er think who made them, and who 
taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies 

Alone are the interpreters of thought? 
Whose household words are songs in many keys, 

Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught! 
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! 

Think, every morning when the sun peeps through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove. 



108 LONGFELLOW 

How jubilant the happy birds renew 
Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! 

And when you think of this, remember too 
'T is always morning somewhere, and above 

The awakening continents, from shore to shore, 

Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 

Think of your woods and orchards without birds ! 

Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams 
As in an idiot's brain remembered words 

Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! 
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 

Make up for the lost music, when your teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more 
The feathered gleaners follow to your door? 

'What ! would you rather see the incessant stir 
Of insects in the windrows of the hay. 

And hear the locust and the grasshopper 
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play? 

Is this more pleasant to you than the whir 
Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay. 

Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take 

Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake? 

'You call them thieves and pillagers : but know, 
They are the winged wardens of your farms, 

Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, 
And from your harvests keep a hundred harms ; 

Even the blackest of them all, the crow. 
Renders good service as your man-at-arms, 

Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 

And crying havoc on the slug and snail. 



BIRDS OF KILLINGVVORTH 109 

'How can I teach your children gentleness, 
And mercy to the weak, and reverence 

For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, 
Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, 

Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less 
The selfsame light, although averted hence, 

When by your laws, your actions, and your speech. 

You contradict the very things I teach?* 

With this he closed; and through the audience went 
A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves; 

The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent 
Their yellow heads together like their sheaves; 

Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment 
Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. 

The birds were doomed ; and, as the record shows, 

A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 

There was another audience out of reach, 
Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, 

But in the papers read his little speech, 
And crowned his modest temples with applause; 

They made him conscious, each one more than each. 
He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. 

Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, 

O fair Almira at the Academy! 

And so the dreadful massacre began; 

O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests. 
The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 

Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their 
breasts. 
Or wounded crept away from sight of man, 

While the young died of famine in their nests ; 



no LONGFELLOW 

A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, 
The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! 

The Summer came, and all the birds were dead ; 

The days were like hot coals ; the very ground 
Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards fed 

Myriads of caterpillars, and around 
The cultivated fields and garden beds 

Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found 
No foe to check their march, till they had made 
The land a desert without leaf or shade. 

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town, 
Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly 

Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun 
down 
The canker-worms upon the passers-by. 

Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, 
Who shook them off with just a little cry; 

They were the terror of each favorite walk, 

The endless theme of all the village talk. 

The farmers grew impatient, but a few 

Confessed their error, and would not complain, 

For after all, the best thing one can do 
When it is raining, is to let it rain. 

Then they repealed the law, although they knew 
It would not call the dead to life again; 

As school-boys, finding their mistake too late. 

Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. 
That year in Killingworth the Autumn came 
Without the light of his majestic look, 



BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 111 

The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, 
The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book. 

A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, 
And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, 

While the wild wind went moaning everywhere. 

Lamenting the dead children of the air ! 

But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, 
A sight that never yet by bard was sung. 

As great a wonder as it would have been 
If some dumb animal had found a tongue! 

A wagon, overarched with evergreen, 

Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, 

All full of singing birds, came down the street, 

Filling the air with music wild and sweet. 

From all the country round these birds were brought, 
By order of the town, with anxious quest. 

And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought 
In woods and fields the places they loved best, 

Singing loud canticles, which many thought 
Were satires to the authorities addressed. 

While others, listening in green lanes, averred 

Such lovely music never had been heard! 

But blither still and louder carolled they 
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know 

It was the fair Almira's wedding-day, , 
And everywhere, around, above, below, 

When the Preceptor bore his bride away, 
Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow. 

And a new heaven bent over a new earth 

Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 



m 20 1907 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



:^^lir!". 



liiliaf 

015 971 398 2 



